


Wait Your Turn

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Class reunion, Cuckolding, F/M, Gay Sex, M/M, Multi, Revenge Sex, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 06:16:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15575592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: Class reunions are a great opportunity to meet old acquaintances and get revenge for old slights. And they're a reminder that you can never go home again. Or can you?





	Wait Your Turn


      Reflections are images of tarnished aspirations.
        -- Racter, "The Policeman's Beard is Half-Constructed"
    

I can't believe it's been that many years. I still remember walking  
the long, echoing halls of Coolidge High, looking at all the girls I  
couldn't have. Dripping resentment and overflowing with self-pity and  
bitterness. Socially inept. Inept in just about every other way.

Especially I remember Marianne. She was a tall, blonde cheerleader with  
big breasts, round hips, and a well-upholstered behind. (Weight loss  
and dieting would not become a ruling passion among females for some  
years yet.) My heartthrob, she was. She made my heart throb, all right.  
Unfortunately, the reverse seemed not to be the case. She didn't even  
know who I was and nonchalantly brushed off my feeble efforts to approach  
her. It was a damn good thing I didn't need to ask her for the the time  
of day, because she likely wouldn't have given it to me.

Why then, did I attend the thirty-fifth anniversary class reunion? Partly  
out of morbid curiosity and, who knows, I might just get some satisfaction  
for all the slights I had endured from my former classmates. Vengefulness  
has been a part of my nature for as long as I can remember.

The refreshments could have been better. I've never been a fan of stale  
pretzels and greasy clam dip. The conversation was stale and greasy,  
too. Who _were_ these people, anyhow? They were graying pot-bellied  
men and their wrinkling, desperately over-mascaraed wives. Certainly, they  
weren't anyone I had anything in common with any more . . . if I ever did.

From across the room, someone was waving at me. She looked vaguely  
familiar. By golly, it was an older version of Marianne. She showed the  
ravages of repeated attempts at dieting, with perhaps a botched attempt at  
a facelift or two thrown in. What the bloody hell could she want with me?

"Arnie! What a surprise to see you here. It's a shame we didn't spend more  
time together back in our wild and dissipated youth."

I couldn't for the life of me imagine what I had once seen in her. This  
was one beat-up broad, and she had liquor on her breath.

"Why, hello, Marianne. It's wonderful seeing you here. Seems like almost  
yesterday that I was walking the hollow -- whoops, sorry -- hallowed  
halls of Calvin Coolidge High. Your luminous smile was the only thing  
that kept me from slitting my throat."

"Oh, go on, Arn. I imagine you had other things to live for."

"Yes, but none half as enticing as you. And you haven't changed a bit.  
A man could do wild and dangerous things just for a fleeting taste of  
your sweet lips."

"You wonderful liar, you."

_Damn right I was lying. Bullshitting my way into her good graces, and_  
_possibly even into her bed. But why was I bothering? I've had numerous_  
_girlfriends much better-looking than this . . . and probably better in_  
_the sack, too. Nostalgia? Revenge? Morbid curiosity. Yep, that was it._

She took me home, all right, and she had a king-size waterbed. I was  
lying next to her on that waterbed after our second go-round, making idle  
chatter and drifting off. All in all, I was musing, it wasn't a total  
waste of time. She was unskilled and pretty clumsy, but enthusiastic. That  
usually counts for something.

There was a knock on the door.

"Arnie, this is my husband, Roger."

_Oh, shit!_

"Uh, hello, Roger."

"I rather enjoyed your performance . . . Arnie, is it?"

"That's Mr. Rumplemyer to you, Roger. What did you use for your viewing  
pleasure, if I may ask? Hidden videocams maybe? I could get you a deal  
on those things. One of the companies I own manufactures a line of  
surveillance equipment."

"Now be nice to him, Arnie. Roger means well. He suffers from certain,  
shall we say, disabilities, and this is one of the few ways he can get  
any enjoyment out of sex."

"What you mean is he can't get it up any more. An interesting situation.  
Roger gets his jollies watching his wife getting rogered by jolly  
strangers. So, what did you think of my technique, Rog?"

"Well . . . Arnold . . . doggie style used to be my favorite, back when  
I still . . . could. I was sort of hoping, though, that you'd give it  
to her up the . . . well, anal alway fascinated me."

"Here, Roger, sit yourself down." I moved over to clear a space beside  
me on the bed. "Make yourself comfortable. This is your home, after all.

"So, tell me, Marianne. What's all this about? You didn't invite me  
over just because you had a sudden itch in your crotch, or did you?"

"We need help, Arnie. Our marriage is in trouble. I love Roger, but he  
can't satisfy my needs. And his own needs are, well, rather unusual.  
Impotence and voyeurism are only the tip of the iceberg. Roger, you see,  
is bi. He always was. I knew that when I married him. We've had ways of  
dealing with that."

(What kind of royally screwed up mess had I gotten myself into?)

"Let me get this straight, Marianne. You need me to . . . make love to  
you. Roger needs to watch, and maybe something more. And the two of you  
together -- just what is it you expect from me?"

There was a moment of dead silence.

Roger began hesitantly, "Well, Arnold, it should be clear to you by now  
that I'm attracted to men. I love Marianne, but I have other desires,  
desires she can't fulfill. Some of those desires involve having done  
to me what . . . what you did to Marianne a few minutes ago. Need I be  
more explicit?"

"No, Rog, I get the picture. It just happens that I'm a bit bi myself.  
Most men are, actually, even if they won't admit it to themselves.  
Putting it bluntly, what you likely want is having me sodomize you. Well,  
Marianne, do you stay and watch, or leave?"

Marianne blushed. She quickly got up and left.

By this time I wasn't in a mood for any more talk. I wanted to get it  
over with and get my ass out of here. I had to admit, though, that the  
thought of getting another piece of ass -- even male ass -- did have  
its appeal at that particular moment.

"What's your pleasure, Rog? Bent over the bed or on your hands and knees?"

His tunnel of love was tighter and considerably less sloppy than his wife's.

All that lovemaking wore me out. I fell asleep. And later, much later,  
woke up.

 

I was in my own bed. But it was a bed I hadn't slept in for thirty-five  
years. I jumped to my feet and pounded over to the dresser mirror. There  
was an oddly familiar discoloration in the upper right-hand corner. It  
was the mirror on the dresser in the bedroom . . . of the house where I  
had grown up. The face in the mirror was mine, all right, but it was an  
unscarred, innocent face. I was eighteen years old and had just awoken  
from a very strange dream.

It was a hell of a dream, all right. Before it faded I wrote down  
everything I could remember of it. The fall of Viet Nam. The collapse  
of the Soviet empire. The screwups in the space program. Moslem  
terrorists. Handheld hi-fi music players. Computers in every home. Most  
of the world connected by a data network. Stock market bubbles and  
crashes. The twenty-first century. And sex! Lots and lots of sex. All  
the girlfriends I had been with and all the interesting things I had  
learned from them.

Weird. I'll have to check some of this stuff out. Do some heavyweight  
research. Find out if there are a couple of Steves named Wozniak and  
Jobs growing up in Homestead, California. See if they have any plans  
for maybe building a computer in their garage and naming it after a  
fruit. Investigate what it takes to corner the world market in silver,  
and see if the Hunt brothers are making any moves in that direction. Check  
if there's a lawyer by the name of William Gates II up in Seattle with  
a bright teenage son named after him. Maybe that kid has an interest  
in programming computers. Could be he'll have a company of his own some  
day. A company worth following and investing in . . .

After breakfast, it was off to school. Good old Coolidge High. Marianne  
the cheerleader didn't even turn her head when I said hello.


End file.
